


Lawless Heaven

by ozomin



Series: Reciprocity [1]
Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Avilio is objectified, Drunk! Nero, M/M, Other, avilio gets graphic, but only briefly, it escalates, like body horror graphic, may be one-sided, short fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7955344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozomin/pseuds/ozomin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nero objectifies Avilio during one of his many drunk stints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lawless

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this ship has swallowed me whole even though I know Nero will probably die in the end.  
> Enjoy!

Avilio.

His eyes are hooded and dark. Intimidating, threatening even. The dim of the lamplight reflects pale yellow in his eyes, adds a warmth he may not possess to his pale skin.

Nero's in an alcohol soaked delirium, especially considering the amount he had to consume of that watered down concoction they called a drink. In these moments that happen more often these days, when he's able to detach himself from the racket in his skull, when he can denounce any responsibility even for an hour or two, the delusions come unbidden and unapologetically.

Avilio is there.

Avilio.

Thin body and a mouth on him that matches the spark of a firing gun. The bud of his lips is wet, the length of this throat submissive.

Avilio's sleeping right outside his room. He's probably not sleeping either. He'd shoot him sooner or later, even darling Avilio will realize just how useless he is in the long run. If not for the crude thoughts swimming through his blood, hot like the alcohol, Nero would be bit more concerned. Instead he downs yet another third of an opened bottle, the burn isn't as good as it could be, but since he's already drunk, he doesn't really care anymore.

Avilio.

His legs are probably more bony than anything else. The tender bulk of his thighs piques something in Nero. Something that slides down his spine like water across hot coals. The curve of Avilio's back is graceful and loose despite the constant stress he both exhibits and must deal with. Nero could probably feel the knobs of each vertebrae if he ran his hand down the expanse of it.

Nero squeezes his thighs tight, leans his head back, sigh heavy and resentful. He licks his lips, hoping to pass out before he comes in his pants. No sooner ashamed of his lack of self control than his ability to compartmentalize everything once he's passed out, able to discuss potential moves with Avilio like nothing has transpired.

Avilio.

Nero could probably see the ridges of each rib if Avilio stretched, rigid bone beneath easy muscle. He'd run his fingers down each one, could probably feel the loneliness between each rib as if it were the seasoned meat. Skin smooth but freckled, pock marked deep browns around his chest, his belly. Nero's willing to bet there's some under there somewhere.

Nero swallows, his current bottle empty just like the others before it. He simply drops it to the floor like he has every other one as well. The bottle green dark and swallowed in against the maroon damask. He's been settled in cushions a touch too soft for his liking, all afternoon now. The oil lamp wick looks to be on its last legs too, golden light steeping the full bottles into a plum against the dark red of the wall paper, an echo of the night outside.

Avilio.

He'd probably have hips whose bones jut out like perfect handles. Dark tufts of curls that trail to a cock that's probably barely been touched.

Nero burps. A shame.

He'd have a cock that's pale and pink, glossy at the head; even a little on the small side. It's probably freckled too. Or smooth, bumped elegantly with veins that disappear under the skin of his navel.

Nero drowns the groan in the next bottle. His own cock can waste away for all he cares. Touching himself would only make it much more tangible. It would be admitting an attraction Nero isn't sure he actually wants.

His ass is probably warm and curved, probably flat, it drowns in those slacks. Even worse, or better, his asshole is puckered and tight. The color of his bitten lips.

Nero digs his fingers into his thigh, wrinkling fabric of pants that aren't meant to be slept in.

Avilio.

He'd smirk with those lips and point with that gun--

And he'd shoot.


	2. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avilio cannot sleep either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!  
> *plays three days grace in the background*

Nero.

Sometimes Avilio feels the anger rise in him like a tide, just as quick and just as overwhelming. It makes the frustration practically seethe from his ears, his nose, his mouth, rise from his skin like steam.

He'll get his revenge soon enough.

Nero.

Nero's all broad body and eyes that can work a room. Eyes that have a life Avilio is determined to snatch away when the time is right. For now, he'll defeat every threat that comes his way until he is the only one left. For him Nero will be the final fragment of his shattered mirror of a life.

Alone will he take Nero apart piece by piece.

Avilio can see the strip of light beneath the door to Nero's office. He can bet he's not sleeping. He's probably drinking himself to sleep.

Otherwise, his eyes are wide open, adjusted to the darkness are the shapes of the glass coffee table in front of him that's seen more booze than coffee, the rust colored frames who's occupants Avilio could name but with little commitment; Old Dons and their lackeys, designer suits and expensive cigars in their thick fingers, and the iron work of the window panes, ink black against the deep ocean blue of the sky.

Avilio rolls his eyes and settles further into the couch cushion, arms crossed over his chest.

Nero.

His body is thick, tanned, he has a warmth Avilio has labeled sickly on many occasions. His lack of real companionship not withstanding.

Avilio wants to peel back his skin, feel the watery sinew between his fingers, let the blood soak his through his own skin. He wants to pull the tendons with his hands, strings and bundles scattered across the floor like shoes.

Avilio could probably swallow the bitter frustration that lies gritty in Nero's mouth, crisp and whole like high quality alcohol.

He could always be more subtle.

Nero.

His hair echoes that of wheat fields in golden morning. Jaw angled and strong, strong enough to pull the trigger on a defenseless child.

Avilio smirks. He watches the light flicker from beneath the door, the little sliver of sun dance like sunflowers in the wind. Maybe if the bastard's light would just go out he'd go to sleep.

The both of them.

Nero.

The line of his throat begs to be bitten, bruised. Collar bones that stand out among the firm muscle of his chest. Avilio could plant soil in the hollows of bone, the rest of his rotting body the nourishment. His waist is stocky, tough skin Avilio could press his fingers into. Fingers that drag through the fibers of resentment and grievance, arrange them into spindles of complacency.

Avilio muffles a laugh into his hand. He's begun tapping his fingers against his elbow, restless now. He eyes the chink of moonlight through the hefty black out curtains. The ice blue of the light makes his skin look paler than usual, gives his eyes their cold apathy he's able to hide in every other situation.

He could go a step lower, slip beneath his skin like a splinter.

Nero.

He'd let Nero fuck him. Fuck him into the mattress, so deep he's almost smothered in the fabric. Nero's stiff calloused fingers spreading him open, holding him down by the throat. Nero's hands tugging on his limp cock.

The idea of breaking the news to him after all of that is a high that rivals that of orgasm.

Avilio's eyelids flutter. He licks his lips, tastes the come on Nero's fingertips. The abrupt thud of glass on carpet bursts the soapy bubble behind his eye lids. He has half a mind to imagine Nero's response to his filthy discretions.

No doubts Nero wouldn't take him up on the offer however.

Nero.

Whose lips are full and full of false confidence. Shining with new depravity.

Avilio closes his eyes again, maybe he's on the verge of sleep for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this exercise taught me anything it was that deep down and probably not so much, Avilio has no chill when compared to Nero who is but a hopeless romantic  
> idk im still on tumblr discuss w/ me : tetsuyakvroko @ tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> There might be a second part in Avilio's perspective, admittedly the more complex of the two. Do you want that? Talk to me on tumblr! Tetsuyakvroko@tumblr , i'm always there and i'm always ready


End file.
